Britannia Angel Transformation Sequence
by de-anon
Summary: It's probably best if Arthur never finds out about what happens when he's drunk.  -Slight USUK, pure crack-


**De-anon 5(?) out of 7. The request had to do with giving Arthur a complete transformation sequence when he changes into Britannia Angel, and of course I threw in some corny USUK. I can't help it! Complete crack.**

I'm not quite pleased with the writing in this yet, but I did try to improve some of my sentences. Maybe I should see if my beta reader is interested in helping me out.

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><p>It was about the same time every Saturday night that Arthur found himself slouched over the bar, one hand limp around a half empty—or half full—bottle of beer and the other reaching for another. Sometimes he'd slur out half-forgotten words to songs he probably never knew. Sometimes he'd whimper prayers or clumsy curses to nobody. Always he regretted going alone.<p>

It was nights like these that he'd drink too much, alcohol dribbling down from his chin, hands already shaking, but the world a pleasant numbness that enveloped his brain like a thick blanket. No thoughts of _him_ could worm their way through his defenses. No depression could catch a strangle-hold on lungs that could already barely breathe.

It was all a very small price to pay, save for one minor issue. He always woke somewhere unfamiliar-butt-naked, and completely alone. Sometimes he'd find himself on a rooftop, on top of the slide in a park, and once on a highway overpass all the way in America. And, with no clue how he got to any of those places—or if some of the situations were even physically possible—the Briton could merely puzzle over the impossibility without the nerve to tell anyone. On such mornings he reminded himself that he'd never again drink, but the next week he was back at it as if none of this had ever happened.

"Angleterre…"

"The hell are you doing here? Can't a man drink in peace?" This Saturday night Arthur found himself crammed into a corner by nearly everyone attending the London World Conference. His fellow countries ordered beers so fast that the bartender was run ragged sprinting from end to end of the bar with foaming glasses.

Alfred plopped himself on the stool next to Arthur, plunking his glass down on the countertop in front of him. Amber liquid sloshed out. "No way, dude, drinking alone is lame!" He grinned ear to ear.

Arthur winced and looked away. "If you all insist on torturing me."

"Oui, we always insist on torturing you." Francis replied. He managed to grab the seat on the other side of Arthur. "Though you seem to come here a lot, don't you."

"H-how the hell do you come to that conclusion?" Arthur demanded. He took an extra long swig of his beer as if suddenly afraid that Francis would take it away. It was not his first and he hoped it wouldn't be his last.

"Seems like your kind of place, I suppose. Quiet—well, on a night when half the world hasn't invaded it—secluded, bartender seemed to know just what you wanted…also, very dismal and old fashioned." Francis said.

Arthur scowled. "What are you suggesting, you frog?"

"Nothing. Nothing at all."

"Wow, France, don't depress the poor guy." Alfred said. His attention seemed split everywhere at once, as if he could take in both Arthur and the chatter of the nations scattered out into the bar, forming their own cliques like oil in water. Finally he chose to lean forward to peer into Arthur's rapidly reddening face. "Though, duuude, how many have you had before we found you here?"

"None of your bloody business." Arthur returned to his glass. Then another. Then another, all the while refusing to look at Alfred until the other finally gave up trying to start a conversation. Instead the American took bets with Francis on which nations would get shit-faced first, and the two were already laughing raucously when Latvia staggered into the lady's restroom.

"Wonderful." The Briton muttered. "Bloody wonderful." But even then as the evening dragged on he found the edge of his irritation dulled by that thick haze of intoxication. Annoying words forming annoying sentences by annoying countries melded into one far away lullaby. He even nodded blankly at Francis when the frog asked him a question—though he didn't quite catch the inquiry. "Hm, very wonderful…" A lazy smile touched his lips.

"Angleterre is quite drunk." Francis murmured to Alfred. He pried the bottle from the island nation's slackened grip.

Alfred sighed. "Maybe we should get him home before he starts ranting or someth—"

"Oh _god_, this place is like a jail." The words came out in a slurred jumble. "A big fucking jail. This whole fucking world is the jail and I'm stuck on this bloody island. Damn it all to hell."

"Too late." Alfred said.

Francis stood. "We can still carry him before he makes a scene." He wrapped his arms around his petite friend and started to pull him from the bench.

Arthur put up a fight, thrashing and flailing and practically foaming at the mouth. "LET ME THE HELL GO, YOU DAMN FROG."

"W-whoa, Iggy, buddy, calm down!" Alfred joined Francis, wrapping his arms around Arthur from the other side. "J-just relax. Go to sleep or something. We'll take you to your house and let you rest. That sound good?" Nervous eyes flickered to the crowd around them. About half were staring with unfocused eyes. The other half simply didn't care.

"Hell no. You're the worst of them all, you damn American." Arthur's voice came out as a low bite, barely audible. "You're the bloody jailer if this world is the jail. Every day I find myself bloody trapped. You and your charming smile. Go to hell. I want nothing to do with you. Not after you stomped on my bloody heart." Syllables became clumsier. "You and your soldiers and your muskets and your damn fireworks. I could have fireworks too and eat chocolate and laugh at you then kick your arse and prank call your President and call him funny names if I wanted. Then you'd regret putting me through hell all these years."

Alfred immediately released him. "Wait, _what?"_

"Angleter—"

"NO. I'm going to be _free, _dammit." Arthur wrenched away, the entirety of his frail body wreathed in a searing hot light that blinded Francis and caused him to stumble backwards. "I refuse to be held down by the tendrils of the past." Even as he spoke, his words held power.

The air around the nations grew colder. Silence froze their lips, their lungs.

"I will not be held down by your scorn and your mockery any longer." Another flash of light, forming rings like ripples around a body that was more of a silhouette than anything. "I am Britannia. I've conquered continents, shook the seas into turmoil with the very mention of my name." He raised his hands above his head, back arching. "I've loved and I've lost. I've been beaten and I've overcome." A rod materialized into his fist, a star shape bursting into one end. He swung his arms downward, back arching further as feet lifted up. Wings sprouted from shoulder blades, and the wrinkles of his clothes were shed as excess heat from his silhouette. Robes born of the light wrapped around his body as he spun a rapid pirouette.

Alfred sheltered watering eyes with both arms, cringing down below the stools with Francis. "The actual hell is happening?"

"Hell if I know!"

The light dissipated and Arthur hovered on outstretched wings, staring adamantly at the back wall. "I am Britannia Angel." His feet lightly tapped the floor and he took a step toward Alfred, robes swishing lightly around a suddenly very exposed body.

"W-w-w-what the h-h-h-h-he—" Alfred shrunk further back. "T-t-t-t-that did not just happen. T-t-too much alcohol. Too much alcohol d-duude…"

Britannia Angel stopped in front of him, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt and hauling him up. "Alfred F. Jones, I bloody love you." And he kissed him full on the lips, hands gentle on the side of his face as he backed Alfred into the counter. Then he released him and smirked and turned.

The angel sprinted forward and barreled through the door, wrapping his wings around himself to fit through the small opening then snapping them back open to catch himself once he was through. He soared into the night, eyes closed, wind caressing at sweat-soaked hair. "Free."

Francis caught the American as he staggered back. "Mon dieu…that was beautiful…"

The bartender merely shrugged. "Happens all the time. I swear, I think he rehearses that little dance. Just need to get him some music or something." He resumed wiping out mugs with a dirty rag, completely nonchalant.

The rest of the nations set beer glasses down on spare tables or even the floor.

~o~

"Bloody hell, my head…" It wasn't until 9 the next morning that Arthur woke sprawled across the hour hand of the face of the enormous clock tower, completely naked, his back more than sore. He sat up gingerly, rubbing at his temples. Eyes widened as the whole of London stood out in detail so stark that it forced tearing eyes shut with the suddenness of it all. "The hell did I end up all the way up here…" He sighed, mind too fragile to work through how to get down, though time was limited. "I swear to god, I'm never drinking again…"


End file.
